News cycle filters through the pictures again,muted buzz of static from the back of the setperched high above an empty bar,upturned stools kicked up like drunk legs. Cigarette burnt low he flicks the butt wide,watches it sail, scatter ash, splutter in the sink,tap drip, dripping in that constant aching mannerof fists drumming against windows caving in. Could comment on the old school tactics,another plague, a new spin on the old classic.Some times the old tricks do work best,even if they stop short of razing it all to dust. Tonight we are being challenged to write War Poetry, which immediately brings back memories of studying Wilfred Owen’s Selected Poems for A Level English Lit. However, war is something that always seems to exist somewhere at any point in history, and all too often conflict is much closer than we would like to believe.
Misfortune comes in sets of threes, but recently I’ve lost count of the omens darkening these skies. Understanding is important, but so is justice, and memory to carry change past the span of sympathetic anger. All power in this world is man-made, the bricks still sticky with greased fingerprints. We were supposed to know better.
There are too many fractures in the fabric of what we are when talking of the greater. We let people spill through into the emptiness. We mourn and demonise, plant blame in gardens not our own and pretend to learn from mistakes already repeating. I wrote one poem for today’s Quadrille prompt before I started thinking about everything that has happened over the last few days. We always seem to be learning our lessons too late and apologising rather than preventing. I hope one day that will change.